


Of Quiet Birds in Circled Flight

by EmrysProngs



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Based on a Poem, Because Freya deserved more, Character Death, Drabble, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Freylin, Grieving, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-28
Updated: 2018-06-28
Packaged: 2019-05-30 01:18:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 796
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15085862
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmrysProngs/pseuds/EmrysProngs
Summary: "Do not stand at my grave and cry. I am not there; I did not die." - Mary Elizabeth Frye





	Of Quiet Birds in Circled Flight

**Author's Note:**

> Just a drabble about Merlin seeing his Lady of the Lake again. Based on a poem by Mary Elizabeth Frye that has always touched me.

_Do not stand at my grave and weep_  
_I am not there; I do not sleep_  
_I am a thousand winds that blow_  
_I am the diamond glints on snow_  
_I am the sun on ripened grain_  
_I am the gentle autumn rain._

The cold was biting.                                                           

It gnawed its way from Merlin’s toes, nibbling and tickling, all the way to the nape of his neck. It sat there for a while, taking permanent residence and making the base of his skull ache. The rain had been warm, uncharacteristically so, but once its humidity lifted, it left Camelot susceptible to a winter’s chill.

He lifted his neckerchief over his mouth, covering his reddening nose. He sniffled once and wished he’d put another pair of socks on that morning.

Camelot was dismal, mimicking the heavy air - which Merlin seemed to keep swallowing despite his cloth barricade. Everyone was moving slowly. It’d be annoying to the warlock if it wasn’t so depressing. They reminded him vaguely of corpses, but he quickly disposed of that analogy when it only served to make him walk just as slowly.

Deciding  _someone_  had to set an appropriate momentum, Merlin ran. He ran out of the city, nearly tripping twice on rogue stones, and went unnoticed by the muggish crowd. It said something about his character when no one seemed to blink when Merlin went sprinting around Camelot, but whatever that something was, he wasn’t really sure he wanted to know. 

The tips of his boots darkened with moisture when the cobblestones were replaced by damp grass. Yeah, he really wished he’d worn more socks. 

Then, from nowhere, a heat went spiraling up his body, starting from the tip of his feet to the crown of his head. An impenetrable wall of fire exploded before his eyes, blinding him with the heat of hell. Strange lengths of copper illuminations engulfed him, a web of pity and self-longing.

Merlin had contemplated death before; he never really stopped. 

He wondered if this is what it felt like.

Just as quickly as he came, it was gone, and Merlin was swallowing more cold.

He heard buzzing. Not the harsh buzz of blood rushing past your ears either. The kind of buzz where as soon as you hear it, you know a headache is approaching fast. The subtle sound he heard now was nothing like that. This was the soft hum of bees sucking nectar from the belly of a flower to bring back to their queen. It was oddly ambient, bouncing between his ears as if they were the daisy and the hive. From left to right the buzzing zoomed, creating a dizzying sensation. Yet somehow, his head wasn’t spinning at all. Not anymore.

A fragile, pale hand appeared where the fire had been and reached out. Merlin took it. 

“Freya?”

He shook his head, disbelieving, and brought his hands to his mouth. She smiled at him and moved closer, the buzzing reaching a crescendo. 

She looked just as beautiful as he remembered, her eyes kind but rimmed with jest. He shook his head in the negative, unable to comprehend the woman in front of him. 

He fell onto all fours, panting, and for a moment thought he was going to be sick. Then, a hand was rubbing circles on his back, while the other carded through his hair. He tried to lock his elbows and keep himself upright but, of course, he achieved the opposite and fell forward. The grass tickled his forehead and left a damp spot.

He’s not sure when she moved, but suddenly his late beloved was in front of him, on her knees, trying to help him up. 

Gods, he missed her. 

He missed the sweet yet corruptive way her limbs would entangle his. Missed the way their magic blended in the simplest of perfections when they were together. Their magic would spiral and whirl as tantalizingly as the cosmos.

_We tasted the stars, Freya._

They let the drips of galactic fire dance across their tongues, creating the rarest but most genuine form of song. They match. Yet, she was swimming with those very same stars, but Merlin selfishly wanted her to come back to Earth.

To come back to him.

And now, in a rare turn of events, this tear in the rift had granted him a gift. 

Once she had him standing, he pulled her close and cried. 

She laughed, tapped his nose with her index finger once and said, “You always were so melodramatic." 

 _When you awaken in the morning’s hush_  
_I am the swift uplifting rush_  
_Of quiet birds in circled flight_  
_I am the soft stars that shine at night_  
_Do not stand at my grave and cry_  
_I am not there; I did not die._

 


End file.
